Friday, July 29, 2016

Saturday, July 23, 2016

I'm twelve. I know nothing.

(you's the girl you's the girl)


Slow computers. No computers. Pseudo lovers. No lovers. Have bondage collar, will travel. Passport without stamps. Bottle of wine and mota and Brian Jonestown Massacre. Psych ward in Dallas. Cracker Barrel. Jerry! Jerry! That's Springer, not Garcia. Elmo's World. Emergency room. Urgent care. WIC vouchers (you get government cheese and baby formula with those). Food stamps (bitch you better not be buyin' steak with that shit). Kerens, Texas. Corsicana, Texas. Nederland, Texas. Hurricane evacuations. Riding an ambulance to Children's Hospital in Dallas with my baby boy, thinking he has leukemia because an idiot nurse who doesn't know her ass from a donut said as much. Craig's List. Facebook. Married men trolling for some instant pussy. MySpace. Limp dick poets waiting for the meds to kick in. Married but separate bedrooms. Married but magic has exited stage left. Because Big Lots. Because Wal-Mart. Because Cowboys For Christ. Because leftover meatloaf. Because The Eagles on the radio and expired Miracle Whip in the fridge. Riding BART in walk of shame regalia. Sweating in donated designer coat. "You better bet your life or love will cut you just like a knife." Open mic. Sell enough copies to treat your man to Taco Bell. Life is magic like that. It's like this and like that and like this and like that and everyday is Dre day and when a man tells me he drove 180 miles per fucking hour down the Autobahn my dick gets hard because I'm twelve and David Lee Roth is in red Spandex on MTV. Transmissions from a sky blue cage in a glorified cow pasture. Bullshit rodeo, y'all. You don't need no horse.


Fuckers follow me then unfollow me. Twitter. Instagram. Bullshit song remains the same. I ain't Trump. I ain't Scott Baio. I ain't Mary Hartman. I ain't Scarlett O'Hara. So I suffer. I bleed. I need a rainbow unicorn birthday cake in my mouth and a candle in my ass. Ain't gonna happen. So I endeavor. It's survival of the sweatiest on the sun dappled side of the street.


Misti, your BR is one of the finest things I've ever read. It ranks up there with CRIME AND PUNISHMENT. Baby, if you don't achieve international success with this, like Nietzsche says, it's only because your readers aren't born yet.

All my motherfucking love!


(just a taste of your skin starts the healing)

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

We're just a couple of teenage vampires in love.


Here I am promoting Fuckerbutt Happy Time with an excerpt. Suicide's "Dream Baby Dream" plays in the background. Cannot fucking believe I just heard about Suicide and Alan Vega a couple of days ago. Well I'm a Texan American, after all. One thing I've learned in my four decades on this planet: mediocrity is richly rewarded. You gotta dig to find the gold. Stumble drunk across the vomitscape to the rollicking sounds of the latest Justin Bieber song. Wheee! Look over there! It's the real housewives of Beverly Hills! Fifty Shades of Vomit! "Charles in Charge"! "Full House"! Yeeeehaw. Earlier I told my son I was going to post a video of me reading a poem from Monkey Bite. He said,"I get it. But nobody else will." Word.




sie lieben mich in Deutschland


Monday, July 18, 2016



(plastics, Benjamin)





in the monkey...

(but I know it don't come in a shot glass)


Here's this scrap
written while blasting
"Chinese Rock"
on repeat
in my Wal-Mart donut pajamas.
There's a zipper.
They keep me warm
in an igloo of a house.
I don't know what I'm doing.
I'm eating Nutella out of the jar
and washing it down
with Great Value green tea.
No milk.
No honey.
I have $4 on my Wal-Mart card.
I have $84 in checking.
Maybe I should apply for massage school.
I've never owned a fishing pole.
Last night I told my son about
Johnny Got His Gun.
Had to read that shit for a war lit class.
"I didn't cry. I sobbed."
"Threw the book across the room."
The son lost his dad's fishing pole
and the dad didn't get mad
and then the son fought in some bullshit war
and ended up
a hunk
of meat.
I'm still looking for the tree house of my dreams.
Now I'm listening to "Me And Mr. Jones."
"Who's playing Saturday?"
(the eternal question)
Do motherfuckers still send SASEs to The New Yorker?
Do motherfuckers still dismiss Tender Buttons as pretentious?
I'm a bit out of the loop.
All this thread loose and rainbowed inside my head
and a bitch still don't know



eBuLLieNCe PReSs


Sunday, July 17, 2016


(across 110th Street is a helluva tester)

I've been singing this song since 1990.

What kind of fuckery is this?

Ms. Gellhorn

God knows we need more of this.

This song has played too many times.

Cooler than chili dog outside the Tastee Freeze.

I never was lucky enough to meet Hollie Stevens but I've been inspired by her from afar for years. In 2010 when I was writing Bullshit Rodeo and scrambling to find a way to make it back to San Francisco to live there permanently I called my good friend Nicole and told her I wanted to work in the porn industry like Hollie Stevens. Nicole told me that I couldn't handle it. She said Hollie was tough. She was probably right about me not being able to handle it. She was definitely right about Hollie being tough. When I learned of Hollie's death in July 2012 I mourned hard for three days (which is how long I mourned Kurt listening to "Nevermind" over and over again and sobbing). I watched her videos, read her writing, learned more about her through the people she left behind. I feel a bit creepy about it. All I know is this: Hollie Stevens exemplified the kind of woman I have always yearned to be. I still struggle mightily at at the poverty level in Texas. Hollie was fiercely independent and accomplished but kind, warm, funny, loving. She lived life on her own terms without apology. Last night I watched every video on Mandy Mitchell's (friend of Hollie's) channel. Laughed my ass off. Then I looked at this painting and laughed some more.

Some people just make you feel better about life. Shit is pretty abysmal so goddamn it's nice (miraculous, even) when you find so much radiance contained in one person. Hollie's light still shines will always shine. I'll always endeavor to live in the moment fully and not take a motherfucking thing for granted. We aren't guaranteed another day. We know this yet we continue to live like drones in sanctioned boxes.

That shit needs to stop.


I write, edit, proofread, design and publish books for myself and my peers.
I take pictures.
I make videos.
I paint.
I amazon.

Hire me for anything creative and concise.
Contact me at

We can do this.


Saturday, July 16, 2016

(admittin' is the first step.)




Read my latest offering to my son. I asked what he thought. He shrugged. He's on his tablet playing a Ghostbusters game. I said,"It doesn't inspire you?" He said NO. "I can barely even understand it. And I don't want to understand it."

Two days ago I took him to Picante Grill for lunch. He had nachos. I had chips and salsa. We both drank unsweet tea. Then we went to the spring fed public swimming pool on San Pedro. I asked him if he wanted to ride my back like a baby turtle. He said,"Stop embarrassing me." I tried to hug him. He told me I can only hug him at home. Not in public. I've always been affectionate with my son. He's eight but I still baby him. That was a first so I bought an Army tank journal and wrote it down.


You will be relieved to know I've removed all
alligators from my heart.
There's still plenty of swamp
but no lurking manifestations.
So ease those sandals that trod so heavy
across my mud because the blood is humming
and strumming a lesser known Bob Dylan song
and the only loss is the picante sauce spilled
on lost gringa toes.
Everything washes off in la lluvia morada
and manana brings mas busted pinata news.
I keep losing those stale cookie fortunes
but I'm good on the waxed dental floss front
and I've always got black ink pen at the ready.
We could go steady if this was an Archie comic
but one too many nights of eBuLLieNT voMiT
leaves a Venus in Aquarius bitch stranded
on much higher ground.
For I have found the peace that does not cease.
This lease won't expire.
Open fire. Open sesame.
The magic begins
and ends
with me.


Hielten sich für Captain Kirk.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

( ( ( K I S S E D ) ) )


Now Todd is in bed. He is crashing. As soon as he returned from Roxanne's he pulled a green-and-red Mondrian-design winter comforter over his fidgeting body. If he had a TV he would have watched it all night.

Instead he makes phone calls. He calls a line called "Confession," where criminals leave messages anonymously confessing the hows and whys of their crimes. Todd listens to a series of serial killers. Then he calls a sex tape and listens to a sex kitten named Molly (she says it rhymes with "jollies") reveal how her hubby would put her in a different motel room every Friday night and then go out to a nearby bar to find new men to come back to plow her while he watched. She says how relieved the men were when they walked in to see she didn't weigh three hundred pounds or look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Then he calls "Passion Phone," a personal-ad service where swingers leave pleas for sexual favors. Finally, though, Todd gets tired of listening to strangers' voices. He feels as if he's eaten too much fast food. Nods off for an hour or so.

Todd wakes up around two in the morning. The steam heat is on for one of the first nights this season making its racket of white noise. He stares out through one tall window (a bit steamed, or is it just dirty?) at a powdered purple sky. Leans over and pushes the buttons for Information without thinking anymore. Asks for a number for Frank Yastremski on Seventh Avenue. Holds the numbers in his head as he dials Frank's listed number. The wind is forcing smoky clouds to pass at highest speeds across the visible sky leaving locomotive steam trails.

Frank: (voice inconvenienced and phlegmy) What?
Todd: It's Todd.
Frank: What the fuck?
Todd: I'm sorry if I woke you.
Frank: (stretching out while calming Sharon back down into sleep with one arm) This better be good.
Todd: It is good. I mean. It's not good. It's just that I felt like I had to call you up. I hadn't told you what happened today with Soupy or anything. When I get butterflies that means I have to do it, whatever it is.
Frank: I don't care about that. Where do you get off? What am I getting out of this? Where's your girlfriend? Cause I was asleep junior. And I haven't heard anything yet to make me happy you woke me up. Huh?
Todd: (emboldened by Frank's half-asleep condition, carries on as if they were both in a dream with no consequences for tomorrow) I know it's impolite and everything. That I'm completely in the red as far as this is concerned. But I wanted to tell you that things went well today. And thanks.

These words said just in the right order and in the right tone of voice soothe Frank. He is no longer all bristles. Peace spreads out from his ears through his arms to his hands and through his legs to his feet. It's rare for him to be so accepting. Even in bed.

Frank: Buddy. I appreciate the sentiments. Let's talk tomorrow okay?
Todd: Okay.

Frank clicks down the phone and lies back. He feels fine. And he just goes on hearing Todd's voice like a sleep-teaching machine under his pillow.

Todd is less easy. What has he done? So he gets up, puts on the kimono robe, and sits by the window again smoking a cigarette. The more of the titillating tobacco he sucks in the less likely he will ever sleep tonight. He's lucky if he gets three or four hours. Now he is rustling in a metal box where he keeps scraps of paper with friends' numbers written down. He would like to make another call.

Phone rings. It rings three times. One for every hour. Todd uncradles it.

Todd: Hello? Hello?
Frank: (standing by the kitchen wall phone, dressed in pajama pants, feet on cold floor) It's me.
Todd: Uh. (exasperated) Look I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Just don't hound me about it.
Frank: So I just remembered I'm in this little fashion show at Saks on Friday at seven and I wanted to know if you wanted to go watch me as my personal guest.
Todd: (exclamatory) I'm working that show too. As a tuxedo waiter.
Frank: (almost disappointed) So you'll see me anyway.
Todd: You'll see me too. In a penguin suit.
Frank: Bark like a penguin.
Todd: No.
Frank: Okay. I'm drained. Look for me. And steal me a bottle of champagne.
Todd: I surely will Frank. I can't believe you called me back.
Frank: Well don't get any wrong ideas. I just felt we had some unfinished business.
Todd: (poetically) I always get wrong ideas.

(from Scary Kisses by Brad Gooch)
(my favorite love story)
(Todd's an Aquarian)
(Frank's a Leo)
(Lucy's a Gemini)
(Sharon is so vague & bland, no clue what she is)


Tuesday, July 12, 2016

They love me in Mauritius.




This provides relief. Fuck you, bottom feeders. Fuck you, soulless money grubby cockroach minded pieces of shit. Calls received from these phone numbers:

(202) 657-6869 (Washington D.C.)
(757) 538-9848 (Suffolk, VA)
(202) 795-3008 (Washington D.C.)
(347) 704-3844 (New York)
(314) 310-1210 (Missouri)

Yes. Let's persecute, harass, threaten a broke ass bitch surviving in San Antonio on $740 a month. Because wheee. Corporate America. Because wheee. Easy fucking target.

Fuck you to the lowest level of hell.



Get your designer watches, dirt cheap.
Get your bottom shelf gin.
Get your rainbow colored itchy lace lingerie.
Get your fuck on.
Get your clown on.
Designer cosmetics, remarkably discounted!
First edition signed Bukowski books, drastically reduced!
Cheap perfume!
Cotton candy making machine!
Five Nights at Freddy's!

Sunday, July 10, 2016


Hi. We're Leftover Halloween Candy, a San Antonio junk band. There's an Aquarian lead singer (me), a Scorpio drummer and a Leo guitarist. Yeah, we'll play at your quinceanera. Bar mitzvah? Bat mitzvah? Bachelor party? Bachelorette party? No gigs are excluded. Book us now while we're still cheap. You may purchase a book of our lyrics here. If you would like to see our first promo video you must go to Instagram. Bueno y gracias.


"at the time of corpses and clouds
I can make love here as anywhere"

"Can I soup up her eyes in a can of star milk
and shoot it for light?"


(does fuck you sound simple enough?)

maS mas MAS!!!



Saturday, July 9, 2016

(a guy like you should wear a warning)

fake fur/real smile

The coat that launched 100 selfies.

I can dig it.




Here's this from an old blog. Should I resurrect? No can do. I've forgotten the password. God. It was a lifetime ago. I live more life in one day than most motherfuckers live in a decade. It's mostly interior, which is fine. I contain multitudes, like my good friend the Gemini...Walt Whitman, baby.

Saw it on a little television in Wichita Falls.

Fuck you. We're innocent.



Friday, July 8, 2016

The conscience of America has died.





Most people and situations bore the fuck out of me. I cannot abide Facebook. I don't want to see your food or grandchildren or pets. Lo siento. I am not a mature, complacent, congenial, normal forty-three year old woman. Yesterday I was walking to the pool with my son. I'd been awake for maybe fifteen minutes. I saw a couple near the gate. They had their damn dogs with them, on leashes. One of the men stared at me, expecting a friendly,"Good morning! Cute dog!" I just glowered from behind my sunglasses and he said,"We're trying to acclimate our dogs to other people." I said,"Well, I'm not a dog person." He said,"You're not?" I said,"Not at all." He apologized. I dismissed his apology. Then this morning in Wal-Mart there were fifty employees standing around like zombies but not one of the check-outs were occupied so I had to do self check-out which I fucking hate. It's just a hassle. I was scanning items and this employee came over and said,"Ma'am you have to put the items in bags after you scan them." I said,"Shut up."

I don't feel great about any of this. I'll be working in customer service soon. Yes. I'll be a concierge in a high dollar residence tower. I'll be expected to kiss rich ass. That's my job description. I suck at kissing ass, as you might imagine. I have a lonely Aquarius sun at twenty-nine degrees that squares my Taurus MC and trines my Uranus in Libra in the second house. There is a lack of fire and water in my chart. Air and Earth dominant. Virgo rising, Virgo moon, sun and Venus in the sixth. Saturn in Gemini in the tenth tops my chart. I've been accused of being hateful, cold, robotic.

But then there's my first house moon trining my Mars in the fifth. I love falling in love! I LOVE sex! Sex with someone I love. Random sex does nada for me. I have to KNOW a motherfucker in much more than the Biblical sense of the word. I love making playlists at YouTube. I love hula hooping. I love dancing. I love swimming. I love being left alone! Unless someone is kissing MY ass I'm not terribly interested in interaction. Well that's not entirely true. I do enjoy the occasional challenge. But it's quite acceptable to dismiss me as a bitch/asshole/misanthrope/hater. I don't HATE. I LOVE. But I HATE being fucked with. And I hate the whole strip mall rat race nine to five grind culture that is hailed by many as The American Dream. It ain't my dream.

I was going to write about The Great American Novel. Okay. Here's this. I was excited a few years ago to listen to Todd Moore read excerpts from his novel in progress, Dreaming of Billy The Kid, at Acequia in Albuquerque. Nonlinear. Dreamy. My brain is Nutella so all I can say is...Todd Moore fucking nailed it. I think of Todd and his work often. I'm honored to own a few of his signed chaps and the only reason I hold onto my copy of The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry is because Todd scrawled,"Misti, yr a helluva poet" on the flyleaf. One of the regrets of my life is that I missed Todd's seventieth birthday party because I was freaking out from postpartum depression and anxiety. He is the greatest writer I have ever known.

There are no limits but people like to think there are because limits keep shit safe. So write about yesterday's blow job and tomorrow's time share in The Hamptons. No risks. No blood. No sweat. No tears. Novels are hot dogs. Most of them taste the same. Condiments may vary. Some people go crazy and put the weiner on a wheat bun. Go baby GO. So in my arrogance I proclaim my latest novel is superior to anything (ANYTHING) you'll find at Barnes & Noble or Half-Price Books. Yeah, Fuckerbutt Happy Time is better than coffee and Star Wars collectibles. Sure, there's plenty of mediocre sex and projection in there but there's magic, too. Magic is the lacking ingredient in the memoirs and novels being churned out ad nauseam. Color coded. Approved by Oprah. MFA sanctified. Motherfucker PLEASE. I'm not concerned with Word Count, Demographic, Genre, page numbers, chapters. I won't be pitching the movie rights to Drew Barrymore.

"Are there lakes or rivers in New York?" (my son, he's eight)
"There's both, baby." (me)
"I mean in New York City."
"The Hudson River."

The other night at the dinner table I was bragging. I'm good at that. I was telling my ex-husband and my son,"Writer's retreat. Residency. HA. I write novels with baby noises and screeching sitcoms in my ear! No peace! No solitude! And I'm kicking ass!"

I really am. Idiots will say,"Well, you aren't making any money. You aren't making any rounds. You haven't flown on a plane since February 2013. So what's your point?"

The point is, I go where angels fear to tread. I met a guy from OKCupid at a bar a few weeks ago after a couple of phone conversations. Right away he told me I had crazy eyes but that's okay, he digs crazy white chicks. He's a Latino. Then he told me he did ten years for homicide. He was just a normal San Antonio teenager, you know. He killed someone with a gun. But things are cool now. He owns a house. He works his dick into the dirt. He showed me all his credit cards. But when I told him I've gone across to Mexico three times in the past year he was incredulous. "They kill white women over there." Well I'm still here, inexplicably. Writing my magical books that don't sell. Jumping through hoops of fire for a few minutes of peace in a Gemini sun Libra moon angel's beautiful loving arms.

My problem, chiefly, is difficulty in convincing other motherfuckers that I'm cool, I'm legit, I'm brilliant, I'm GOOD. Nothin' I can do about any of that. I'm just sitting at this spinning wheel like a regular peasant bitch, turning my tiny infinity of straw into GOLD.

I put this fucker in Fuckerbutt Happy Time.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016


Fucking FINALLY. Here's the novel I started writing in 2014. It was Heaven and Hell and everything in between. Fuckerbutt Happy Time. My son helped me with the title when I first started writing the manuscript. I told him the first word in the title had to be "fuckerbutt." He came up with "happy time." I'd like to thank my son, all the motherfuckers who provided me with field research, Lauren for sage counsel and commiseration and The Academy.

"We'll crucify the insincere tonight."

(composite sun in Aries/Leo rising)

It's like this.

I just wrote and posted a poem. Deleted it.
Here's this instead because this is where I'm living.
Last night in bed I told my man,"I'll never write about this."
And he dismissed that because he knows me.
"Yeah you will. You're a writer."
And I said,"With other men I'd have written twenty poems by now."
It's been three weeks.
A lifetime.
"I guess bad sex is more inspiring than good lovemaking."
(I said.)
I'm adept at recording the hell and horror of my life.
This is something else entirely.
There isn't anything subversive or ironic
about true love.

Monday, July 4, 2016


HEY! You got to hide your love away!


Cheapen the word with advertisement, anodyne. The word cannot stand on its own. The word is drunk off her ass from sangria and tequila shots and is wobbling to her boyfriend’s car in Payless platforms. Oh she thinks she’s quite a hot bitch but the word is actually a self-absorbed fucktard incapable of clearing fogged cobwebbed mind of years of Southern Baptist programming and American media saturation. Fucking Helen Gurley Brown and her tawdry love affair with italics. Keep Your Man With Blow Jobs That Will Blow His Mind, Darling! Fucking Hugh Hefner and his terrible taste in women. Fucking Charlie’s Angels. Fucking Scooby Doo. Fucking Gilligan. Fucking Wally Cleaver. Fucking Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli. A tiny infinity of Lifetime movies, color coded sitcoms, self-help books, the dating life of Leonardo DiCaprio, the love life of Brad Pitt, the sex life of Charlie Sheen, expired orgasm coupons, regurgitated words of love, idiotic ramblings of booty call nation, trying to adore men with halitosis, trying to commit to men with mommy issues, those thirty extra pounds, soul mate mythology, the kama sutra in five positions or less,, Mars and Venus conjunct in Gemini, sun and Jupiter conjunct in Virgo, Gin Blossoms, Matchbox Twenty, HPV, organic kink aisle at Whole Foods, Kim Kardashian’s Twitter feed, The Billy Madison Show, bottom shelf moscato, leaving face wash at his place to stake some kind of pathetic claim.

The word is an illiterate bimbo. She tries really hard but comes across as a pale imitation of Erica Jong meets Anais Nin meets Sandra Cisneros on a really bad hair day. Fuck the word. Fuck the word so fucking fucking hard.

Sunday, July 3, 2016

My tenth house is a library.

Yeah. I like it like that.



(it's worse than death.)



I miss my shiny black Capezios.

(((takes a lot of practice)))

eBuLLieNT in my Wal-Mart biKini

Amerika. 4 JULY 2016.

!!! WAKE UP !!!

"Let me sleep on it."

mas! maS! MAS!!!